Page 41 of The Commons

“Mom, I’m so sorry. I thought you would understand when you knew it was for Levon. Mrs. Solodia was the only person I knew who went to the school.” My voice breaking, begging, hoping, crying. “I promise, Mom. I had no other option.”

“We always have options.”

“Mom, please! Please! I’m begging you, please⁠—”

The phone is breaking up, and my heart is breaking even more.

“I have to go, my meeting with the president is in thirty seconds. Like I said, I’ll call you back.”

“Mom, please⁠—”

She cuts the phone. My heart caves. I drop the phone, fuming on the inside, tapping my legs to control my sadness. Pesh comes and sits next to me.

Head down, I wipe away a tear that drops from my eye. “I guess that’s the price of power. Relentless pursuit while every other thing suffers, including your children.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. I’m sorry it is, for you. And I know it’s hard for you to believe, but you are good enough. And your worth is not defined by their response, or lack thereof, or anyone’s response to you in fact,” he says.

For a moment, I’m lost in his eyes, but it’s a struggle to fully believe his words. “What if I need to find something to prove that I’m good enough? To find myself, even?”

“I don’t think you can find anything. Or anyone. Until you find yourself.”

I can’t help but notice his emphasis on anyone. Is he talking about Levon? He must be. What else could he mean? “I think I’m finally believing that’s true,” I say. “I think I’m finally understanding who I am, especially after that conversation with my mom… and being here with you. I’m starting to think I’m someone who’s willing to fight for what and who I believe in. I thought I had to win every time, so I was afraid of trying without some type of guard or shield or sign from the other person.”

Why am I telling him all these things? But I can’t help it. The words just keep running out of me.

“I was always afraid of failing, but I realize, it’s okay to fight with the sword of love, of unconditional love. Regardless of if I win or not, love never fails. I still have to fight, just like I did with my mom just now, for the first time in a long time.”

He stares at me with a steady and admiring gaze. I look down and scoff, trying to control myself from talking anymore about me.

“Can I fight for some truth out of your lips?” I ask with a light smile.

He nods in response.

I had tried to be subtle, but at this point, it’s hard for me to speak without being honest about my reservations in his presence, because of the effect he has on me. So I just ask, “How did you go up in rank and become a Patron? Now, you have so much power… did you have to take any student out? Or physically hurt anyone to get there?”

He looks around to make sure no one is here. He draws closer with a bold and intimidating gaze, yet I am not scared.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I don’t know. People say Patrons can take anyone ou—” I stumble on the word.

“Is that what you believe? What people say?” he asks with genuine intrigue in his eyes, not like the sound of my speculation is an infuriating trigger; but more like the sound of me knowing anything about him from other people is the trigger.

“I’ll believe whatever you tell me,” I respond.

He feels the challenge in my eyes, so he closes in on me. This time, I’m a little scared.

He lowers his voice, and his words drop directly into my heart. “Don’t believe everything that you hear. Not even what I just said. It’s up to you to discover the truth for yourself. And when you know the truth, it will set you free.”

Pesh thrives on being a mystery, but I’m done with mysteries, so I go right in for the punch. “Set me free! Like from the dangers of the study abroad? Or should I say, The Seventh Zone?”

He interrupts me instantly with a completely different tone. “There is no Seventh Zone.” He stands up and pulls away from me. “You’re a second late for your dorm check. We never spoke to each other.”

It’s already 8 p.m?

I don’t want to leave. I want to know why he reacted the way he did, to push him to tell me the truth. To peer into his mind, to read him right here and now, but I don’t have time.

I make a brief unimpressed look, cut it, then leave. I know he wishes he had ended that conversation on a kinder note. At least, I wish he does. And if he wants to help, he will have to come to me. If he really cares about me, he will stop giving me so many mixed messages.